


Charger

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Amputation, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, trauma happned and idiots wont talk about it until they have to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 04:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16189988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: It's two steps forward, one step back.Or perhaps, Simmons supposes, it's the other way around.





	Charger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [creatrixanimi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatrixanimi/gifts).



> _“A cha-charger_  
>  _What is the cause of it? ___  
>  _And well in that case, how do you know it's your own?” ___  
> -Gorillaz, "Charger"

 Simmons was half-asleep in the chair when Grif finally moved. It was just the slightest twist of his hand, and it could barely be seen under the white blanket Simmons had tucked around him. But within seconds Simmons was wide awake, leaning over the bed with a concerned yet excited expression.

“Grif?”

He took a moment to consider, but then put a gentle hand on his shoulder. Grey had been right when she’d said it would be today.

“Hey? Fatass? Good morning.”

And eventually the eyes cracked open, hazy brown and blue staring up at Simmons. When they finally seemed to focus on him, his lips turned upwards into a small smile. “Morni…” The muffled word died out when his mouth gave up.

Simmons raised an eyebrow and concluded the painkillers are working. But that was only a good thing.

Seeing Grif’s eyes open and hearing his voice again granted Simmons an immense feeling of relief – even greater than when Doctor Grey had given him the good news. They had been quickly followed by the bad news, but the fact that Grif would live had been enough.

“Slept well?” he asked, a desperate chuckle hiding beneath the question because he didn’t really know what he wanted Grif to reply. But it didn’t matter – Grif was awake now, and that was the only thing of importance.

The rest… The rest would come later.

“M’late?”

“Aren’t you always?” Simmons had to smile before allowing himself to lean back in his chair. He could still see Grif from here, even the weak smile on his lips, the confusion in his glazed over eyes.

“Am I in trouble?” he asked. “What – is Sarge gonna blast me with his shotgun again? Fastest way to leave the bed, you know.” His voice was stronger now but still hoarse after days without use. To Simmons it sounded lovely.

Simmons frowned and turned his head so Grif couldn’t see it. “I, uhm, I’m pretty sure he’ll let it pass. This time.” His tone was supposed to be humorous, but he had a feeling that he’d failed. Especially with the way Grif suddenly pursed his lips.

He was staring at the ceiling, and suddenly it became too difficult for both of them to ignore how they were obviously in a hospital room. “So how bad is it?”

“It’s _fine_.” Simmons had to clear his throat after his voice broke. “G-Grey said there were no complications during the surgery. You just need some recovery time. So… You can skip training for a while.”

“That’s great.” Grif closed his eyes. Inhaled. “Like. Yay. Did she say for how long?”

“Uhm, you should be able to use the excuse for some weeks, at least.”

_“Nice_.”

Simmons started to wring his hands. He’d been doing that a lot the last couple of days. “Are you in pain? I can go fetch a nurse if you-“

“Nah. Doesn’t hurt it’s just… Fuzzy.”

“Sounds like the painkillers are working.”

Grif nodded and his glassy eyed moved to stare at Simmons again. “Your face is very round. And spinning.”

“They’re definitely working.”

“Looks good on you.”

 Simmons shifted in his seat. He was quite sure his face wasn’t spinning though it felt very warm at the moment. “Do you… remember what happened?”

A frown was formed on Grif’s bruised forehead. Simmons crossed his fingers – he would be very grateful if they could save this conversation for later. Maybe Simmons didn’t even have to bring it up. Maybe Grey could tell him. She would probably be better at it anyway. Despite her crazy demeanor, she could be gentle. Like when she’d called in Simmons to explain what happened – and what was going to happen.

“I crashed? Wait, that doesn’t sound like me. That’s you. Simmons, were you driving? Did I allow you to drive? I hit my head, didn’t?”

“Your head is actually pretty fine.” That had been one less thing to worry about. A few bruises and cuts but no actual trauma. It had been some of the good news.

“Can you tell Sarge that? I think he doesn’t know.”

“I’ll him know.”

“Also, tell him about that no training thing. I like that. Can I nap?”

“Yeah.” He inhaled, running a hand across his forehead. “You can nap, Grif.”

“That’s… good? You never let me nap. Simmons, are you okay? Holy fuck, you’re dying, aren’t you?”

Perhaps his voice was a bit too thin when he replied, “I’m fine, Grif.”

“Am I dying?”

“No.” Simmons opened his eyes again, knowing it was best to let Grif rest. Their talk had been rather successful, and he’d have to let Grey know that Grif was rather clearheaded given the circumstances. “Are you sure you’re not in any pain?”

“Mmmhn… Can’t even feel my… leg.” Grif’s voice trailed off.

Simmons watched helplessly how the mismatched set of colored eyes drifted downwards, towards the end of the bed, where the blanket was covering the bandages. However, it couldn’t quite hide the actual extent of the damage.

Grif stared.

Simmons hadn’t been prepared for the horror in Grif’s mismatched eyes. He’d supposed it would have been easier.  Grif never showed his emotions.

Too bad he was high on painkillers right now.

“Simmons?”

* * *

He still had nightmare about it.

They’d grown rather used to the missions on Chorus. They knew it wasn’t like Blood Gulch – things were actually dangerous here. Potentially fatal. And not because of team-killing fucktards but because actual, dangerous, cruel space pirates that were trying to kill them by any mean possible. Including mines.

The worry had grown into a sort of constant buzzing in the back of his head, a constant awareness that this was war and death could hit every day.

Simmons had remained in Armonia due to a problem with the newly acclaimed monitors, and he’d spent his day trying to come up with a code that’d make some somewhat functionable.

But Gold, Blue and Green Team had headed out for a supply raid on one of the abandoned Fed bases that was now rumored to be taken over by pirates. Grif and his men had only been there for the transport. He’d stay out of the fighting, he’d promised that, and he’d laugh because they all knew he’d contribute nothing in a fire fight anyway.

He’d told Simmons to save him an extra tray of dinner.

Simmons’ helmet had been lying next to the keyboard. He didn’t need it as he leaned closer to the screen. He hadn’t expected the call.

But when he’d heard the muffled voices coming from within it, his curiosity drove him to put it back on.

_“…Hello?”_

_“-what do you mean ‘ten minutes’?! We-_ Simmons _?!Why are you- Caboose, did you add him to the channel?”_

_“He’d want to talk with Gruf.”_

_“Grif can’t talk right now. Caboose, I told you to-“_

_“Tucker, what’s happening? Whe-where’s Grif?”_

The moment lasted too long, and Simmons had instinctively known. His body turned limp, and he’d almost fallen off the chair. He’d gripped the edge of the table tightly to keep himself up.

_“Look, I don’t give a shit, we need backup-“_

_“Tucker, what is happening-“_

_“We’re with Gold Team. What’s left of Gold Team. Gold Team is splattered across the fucking ground, okay, just come with the fucking pelican so we can get Grif out of here-“_

_“Tucker, tell me what is going on-“_

_“Yeah, make those ten minutes five. Holy fuck. Oh fuck. Caboose, just- Look away, alright. Don’t touch that.”_

_“Tucker, please-“_

_“Simmons, I can’t talk. Fucking shit…”_

And Simmons had waited a second, heard Tucker swear, and with his heart beating against his ribs, he’d asked with a voice so calm he surprised himself, _“Is Grif dead?”_

_“Not yet and he better fucking not get that idea. Hear that, fatass? You are not fucking leaving me with that responsibility.”_

_“Do you have a biofoam?”_

_“I don’t know. Holy shit, I don’t know. Can it fix something that isn’t there?”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“There was a mine, Simmons. We heard the explosion. Caboose, fuck it, I need your help. Put your hands here, press it down, alright.”_

_“Ah, no, that, that really doesn’t look like a good idea, no. That looks very painful, and you keep telling me not to scratch my sores-“_

_“This is different. Just do it.”_

And Grif had moaned, and Simmons had been so happy to hear the sound, so relieved at the first sign of life.

_“Shit, shit I can’t stop the bleeding. Five minutes, my ass, we need- we need-“_

Simmons, remembering medical classes that Grif had never bothered to attend. Waste of time, he’d said, winking at him before turning around to shuffle back to his room. But Simmons had stayed, and he knew the correct protocols, what to do in case of an emergency – pressure, stitches, cauterization-

_“Tucker_ ,” he’d said, not sure whether or not he hoped for the Blue to hear him, _“Tucker, your sword…”_

Grif had screamed.

Simmons couldn’t forget the sound.

* * *

“But he’ll live?” Simmons has asked, fingers crossed behind his back and a quiet prayer inside his head.

“Oh, yes!” Grey had told him with a big comforting smile on her face. It didn’t manage to erase the tired lines under her eyes, though. The surgery had been long and complicated. Or at least so he’d been told. “Quite the fighter! Or maybe he’s just too stubborn. Sarge had warned me that Grif is hard to get rid of.”

And Simmons had inhaled deeply, feeling dizzy for a moment. “That’s good.”

“Indeed! I doubt Gold Team would want to bury any more members. At least in Grif’s case the loss was limited to a quarter.”

Simmons tilted his head. A bitter taste had appeared in his mouth. “He- _His_ -?”

“Impossible to save, unfortunately. _But_ it’s better than the alternative!”

“Does he need-?” Simmons looked down at his right leg, the one made of flesh and filled with scars. He didn’t have much left. But he had that. “He can have it. We’ve tried it before, I’m sure-“

“That’s not how organ donation works, silly.”

And Grey had laughed because of the illogic of the offer.

* * *

“Do you feel a small tingle?” Grey asked while sticking a screwdriver into Grif’s new leg. From a distance it could look painful, but Simmons knew better than anyone that it was just a part of the maintenance routine.

Grif was sitting on the hospital bed, letting the doctor work while he looked everywhere but his new cyborg limb. “Am I supposed to feel a small tingle?”

“That depends – do you have a suspicion that an infection might be growing? Because that would be troublesome.”

Apparently unsure of the situation, Grif looked at Simmons with a lost expression. When Simmons only gave him a shrug as an answer, Grif carefully replied, “Uh, no?” His new metal toes moved, almost glinting in the sharp light coming from the ceiling.

Grey closed a panel on his leg. “What about a pang of pain?”

“No.”

“Great!” She slapped the knee gently before standing up. “Then I didn’t mess up your nerve system! Chances are low, but you always have to make sure. So no weird sensations?”

“Are we talk about the weirdness of the situation or-“

“Your leg,” Simmons interrupted him dryly and rolled his eyes.

Grif ignored him to point at a green button near his knee. The metal continued until the middle of his thigh where the stump had been outfitted with a neural-sensitive base to attach the actual cybernetics. “Is that thing supposed to be glowing?”

Grey didn’t even look. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“It means it’s connected.”

“Okay.” Grif hesitated for a moment but then he reached out, one chubby finger aimed towards the glowing area.

Grey grabbed his wrist and shoved at back against his chest. “Don’t push the button.”

“Why? Why does _my leg_ have a button I’m not supposed to touch? Did Sarge install a self-destruction button?”

“I kept his suggestions to a minimum.”

“Hey, I’m used to touch all parts of my body.”

Simmons tried to keep his expression neutral. “You’re lucky Donut isn’t here,” he muttered under his breath. Red Team had been there a few days earlier, when Grey had allowed visitors inside the room. Donut had given Grif comforting words and too many reassuring pats on his shoulder. Sarge had huffed how he was satisfied that Grif hadn’t humiliated Red Team by being killed by a little dynamite.

Grif flipped him off while still looking at Grey for a reply, “Wait, you didn’t answer my question? Is that a no?”

“Here we go,” Grey said, effectively not answering anything. After having made the finishing touches on the prosthetic, she now gently grabbed Grif’s shoulder to nudge him closer to the edge of the bed. “Try to take a step.”

Grif looked down at his leg and seemed almost terrified when he managed to tilt his foot up and down. “Uhm, I really want to know if they’re any explosives in there.”

“It’s your leg,” she said, “why would there be explosives?”

Her kind of logic usually didn’t go that well with Red Team.

Grif shifted, looking at the floor without indicating that he was going to stand up any time soon. A dark bruise could be seen on his neck as he moved his head. Simmons bit his lip.

Grey watched them both curiously for a moment but then lost her patience. Her nudges became a bit more insistent. “Well, first step is the hardest. Don’t make me push you.” Her teasing voice was actually quite scary, especially with the visor hiding her expression.

But Grif wasn’t moving.

Simmons finally left his seat, shrugging. “Gotta try it at some point.”

He faintly remembered a time back in Blood Gulch where he had woken up to a weird sensation in half of his body, listened to a new weird buzzing and constant beeping, and numbers had kept appearing in the left side of his vision. Sarge had clapped him on the back, almost tumbling him over, and had asked him to walk so he could see how well the springs inside Simmons’ knee would hold up.

The hospital bed creaked slight as Grif let his left foot rest on the floor. He wasn’t wearing any socks or shoes and Simmons could see the pale skin that had once belonged to himself. There was even that scar on the big toe, from a time he’d failed horribly at football training before he’d been kicked out of the high school’s team.

The right foot is slim and metallic and far more shiny than the cyborg limb Simmons had received.

Grif put weight on it, and Simmons instinctively took a step closer, hand reaching out to support.

When the leg crumbled beneath Grif, he was too heavy for Simmons to keep upright and so he fell with him, letting out an _oomph_ when he bruised his knee.

Grif was clutching the back of Simmons’ neck, and even now on the floor, Simmons felt the grip tightening slowly.

* * *

“Well, I always found matching couples adorable,” Donut said when the moment of the actually quite comforting silence apparently became too long. Simmons had been staring at the papers where Grey had written about this new project: all the details about what technology and materials she’d used for the leg. Even in wartime she’d made sure Grif got the best. Simmons appreciated the effort everyone had made since the incident.

There had been other visitors before, and each visit had been stiff and awkward. It’d been a mess of get-well cards and gift baskets filled with snacks and promises of revenge on the pirates and being told they were relieved and happy to see him awake, and Grif had worn the same tired and bored expression through it all. When they’d been alone he’d asked Simmons to burn to cards and hand him the snacks.

While Donut had made it his job to make Grif as comfortable as possible – fluffing his pillow and complimenting his new leg – he also managed to make Simmons as uncomfortable as possible. He could feel his cheeks turn red.

Sarge was definitely not as impressed as Donut when observing the leg Grif was resting on top of the blanket. “Not quite as fancy as my handiwork but I suppose that for you it’ll do.”

Grif didn’t even bother to scowl. “Seriously, I need to know, did you install this button?”

Leaving his chair to show his teammates the blueprints (or _redprints_ as Sarge had renamed them) Simmons insisted, “Grey said she’s used the best technology available.”

“The button,” Grif said, glaring at Sarge, “What does it do?”

“I can tell you!” They all turned their heads to see the Blues enter the room. Caboose was heading straight towards Grif, his expression excited. “After I’ve pressed it.”

“No!” Grif pulled his leg closer to himself and protectively hovered his hands above the area. “No one pushes the button.”

Tucker snuck into the room rather quietly, placing himself so he was leaning against the wall. For a brief moment he gained eye-contact with Simmons but then they both looked away.

Simmons glanced at the pile of get-well cards instead. He had refused Grif’s command, and so they remained unburned. Majority was from Gold Team, and Simmons recalled Matthews and Bitters visiting the first second they’d been allowed.

Simmons had tried to stay out of the room to give them a moment, knowing the mood would take a somber tone once the lost teammates were brought up. He’d hoped it wouldn’t distress Grif too much (and, yeah, his hope was never that high) since Grey had made it clear he was supposed to relax.

“Do they know when he has fully recovered?” Wash asked, pulling him out of his thoughts. He was the only Freelancer in the room, since Carolina and Epsilon had gone scouting to prepare for a retaliation attack.

Grif apparently heard him and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “You mean when I can do back to running laps?”

Wash’ eyebrows moved slightly. “Partly.”

“Grey said it could take some weeks before he’d be as good as before,” Simmons added to the conversation because this was important. Grey had said he’d be fine. Not counting the prosthetics and all that. But alive and well. A little metal never hurt anybody.

“Hey, my leg didn’t have buttons before.”

“At least you only lost one limb this time,” Tucker pointed out in a cheerful tone. It really wasn’t that funny though. At least, that was what Simmons thought.

Grif just shrugged. “Yeah. Turns out your bad driving skills are more destructive than a fucking mine. Congrats.”

“Seems like even your body wants to get rid of you,” Sarge said with an amused huff. “Slow self-destruction.”

Simmons found himself staring at Grif’s leg, one of metal and one that had once been a part of Simmons, and he thought that maybe this was a very weird and absurd situation.

* * *

When Grif was finally discharged, Simmons was more than relieved. He’d been sitting in the hospital chair for so many days it felt like his butt had slowly been shaped into a perfect fit. Square butt.

He’d left during the nights but had preferred to stay with Grif as much as possible. Since he was in charge of bringing Grif dinner, he could just as well eat with him. It was only logical. Besides, Grif had been getting moody, and Simmons was the most trained in dealing with the orange soldier’s annoyed behavior. It could usually be settled with a lot of snacks on hand.

So he’d made sure there had been a steady supply line of snack cakes and sodas coming to Grif’s hospital bed. He hadn’t eaten all of them, since the medication apparently made him nauseous, but Grif’s stomach was as sturdy as always and he hadn’t thrown up yet.

Simmons groaned as he pushed the wheelchair forward. “Yep, you definitely have to learn how to walk. My back won’t be able to take this.”

“Yeah, like you got the right to complain.”

He was pretty sure Grif was rolling his eyes but he couldn’t see it. But judging from the tone he doubted Grif’s expression was anything cheerful. Simmons cleared his throat. “So, uhm, Grey said we should start the walking exercises tomorrow.”

“’ _We_ ’? What, is it that stupid kid game where we tie our legs together?”

“No-“

“’cause I was disqualified from that game.”

“We’re going to- Wait, now I’m actually curious. What did you do?”

“Laid down and napped.” Grif shrugged. “My partner tore himself loose and ran fast enough to win the race. But, you know, we kinda skipped the whole teamwork thing so he didn’t get his medal.”

Simmons remembered those games. He’d tried to win, but despite the length of his lanky legs he’d never been that fast. He hadn’t even earned third place. “Poor kid,” he said, wondering if the guy had been just as disappointed as Simmons had felt when he’d had to deliver his dad the bad news.

“Pretty sure he cried too.”

“You were a mean kid.”

“Riiight. Didn’t you get beat up by a soccer player? I’m sure my extra nap did much more harm.”

They finally reached their shared quarters. It was late evening, since Simmons had thought it would be ideal to move Grif once most of the base was asleep. Grif had sworn to tear the head off the next random recruit that told he was glad he wasn’t dead.

It’d be more practical to put up a line for those who’d tell him they wished he’d died. It’d save time, Grif had said, because Sarge was quick to deal with.

Simmons wheeled him inside and quickly closed the door. He’d spent his nights here alone, and the sight of the empty bed in the other side of the room had been unnerving. So maybe he’d had a few problems when it came to sleeping. But that was only for the better, since it had allowed him to be more productive.

“I changed the sheets,” he told Grif as he helped him to the bed. “And got a you a new blanket. And burned your old mattress. Your stains had stains.”

Grey had insisted that Grif had healed just find with her advanced medical attention, but that didn’t stop Simmons from trying to stop the wound from getting affected. Especially when Grif didn’t seem to care about the nest of bacteria he was usually lying in.

“Do you need…?” he trailed off, watching Grif trying to get himself from the wheelchair to his bed. He had little luck. For a moment it seemed like he was trying to launch himself towards the mattress, and Simmons took a step forward.

After pulling his chair closer, he managed to lift himself upwards with his arms. Simmons helped him getting the legs along, and there was a weird _clank_ when his left hand met with Grif’s new leg.

Grif reached down to pull the blanket up to cover his body. A part of his shoulder was left unprotected, but Simmons refrained from pointing it out. The only reason he’d been allowed to fuss over Grif the first couple of days had been because he’d been unconscious and half-dead. He hadn’t exactly been able to reach the blanket himself, so that left Simmons to do the work for him. As always.

“Please don’t fall off the bed,” Simmons pleaded. “’cause, uhm, Grey said she’d almost used up all the blood supply to keep you alive. You have to be considerate.”

“Sure,” Grif said and turned over to stare at the wall.

Simmons watched him, and considered whether or not to say goodnight, but they’d never really done that before and Grif obviously wasn’t in the mood for their so-called pillow talk. He turned off the light, found his way to his own bed, and once he was lying down he found himself staring at the spot that finally wasn’t empty anymore.

* * *

“Rise and shine,” Simmons said and pretended not to have spent the last two hours wide awake in his bed.  He could probably have walked around without waking Grif up, seeing how he could sleep through an earthquake (or, well, an alien invasion), but Simmons had for once preferred to just lie in his bed, keeping his eyes open and reminding himself that things were calm again. He could allow himself this break.

But eventually he’d grown too restless to lay still, not to mention his poor bladder. And seeing how it was near midday, it was only right to wake up Grif.

It took some seconds before the other man reacted. He opened on eye, moved slightly, and then his face scrunched up into a winch when he twisted his leg. But after a couple of seconds he relaxed and glared at Simmons with sleepy eyes. “Are you only saying that ‘cause my leg’s shinier than yours?”

“It’s not.” Simmons was quiet for a moment. “Okay, maybe.”

Grif snorted before rolling over, facing the wall again.

Simmons stood in the middle of the room, unsure of what to do next. Ethical reasons kept him from pushing a recent amputee out of his bed.

While a part of him wanted to let Grif rest until the last trace of paleness and exhaustion had left his otherwise relaxed expression, he knew that the doctor had requested more than bedrest. Simmons wrung his hands as he said, “Grey said you should be trying walking down the hallways today. You know, to test out your leg.”

“You know what? I think we should test it. But let’s put it on a more bit advanced stance… Like… horizontal.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” Grif said, voice muffled by the pillow. “I’m taking a nap.”

“What?” Simmons’ eyebrows were raised into a frown. “No, you can’t do that.” He remembered his own days after his surgery: the pain and how the new, heavy limbs had dragged him down, but Sarge had needed his help so he’d swallowed his painkillers and walked until he finally got a hold of the new functions in his leg and eventually that spring had even stopped making funny noises.

“Sure I can.” The orange bundle that was Grif underneath the blanket moved slightly. “I’ve missed so many naps.”

“You were literally unconscious.”

“There’s a difference between being in a coma and napping.”

He was, unmistakably, right about that.

Simmons’ jaw clicked shut and turned his head to look at the wall instead.

Another day wouldn’t hurt. It’d let the leg heal some more before putting the weight on it. Plus Grif did look quite tired now when Simmons thought about it. But Grif always looked tired.

Tomorrow, then.

* * *

“Grey said-“

“Honestly, Simmons, did you expect me not to milk this?”

Truth to be told, he should have seen this coming. Simmons sighed and ran a hand across his red hair. He wished it’d feel slick, dirty, so he had an excuse to leave the room. The air filled so stuff in here, almost sickly. But he’d showered twice a day, sometimes more, since Grif had been put in the hospital. He was just wasting water at this point.

“It’d just be a small walk. Down the hall. To the vending machine. I’ll even pay for it.”

When Grif rolled over, he thought for a moment that he might have convinced him. But the Hawaiian’s eyes were clouded with exhaustion, and he yawned, staring up at him without a hint of interest.

“ _Or_ ,” he said when his long yawn had ended, “ _you_ could just go pick up the snack for me. You know I love moonpies.”

“I’m not getting them for you.”

“Fine. I’ll just blackmail Bitters to go get them.”

“You can’t stay here forever.”

Grif’s hair was dirty. It clung to his forehead, and all the curls were gone, as if someone had pulled until the hair gave up.

“Why not?” he asked Simmons. “Dude, this is my one legitimate reason to lay low. Sure, it’s just a walk in the hallway, but before you know it, Kimball says I can run laps, then patrols – and do you know what happen on patrols? Mines. Mines happen.”

“Maybe they’re like lightning? If you get hit once, you won’t-“

“With my bad luck?” Grif snorted, and he knew that Simmons wouldn’t be able to respond to that.

So the cyborg didn’t argue against it. Instead, he said, “Grey thinks you’re depressed.”

“Oh wow. Really?”

“That’s what she said to Sarge. Who then made a joke about it, and Caboose overheard it and he told Tucker who figured out it was ‘depressed’ and not ‘compressed’, and then he told Wash who told me. And now I’m telling you. I don’t know. Maybe Caboose was right – maybe you are compressed.”

“Maybe.” Grif leaned his face against the pillow again. Like this, with the blanket covering him, you almost didn’t notice the missing leg. “Do I look depressed to you, Simmons?”

Simmons shrugged. “You look the way you’ve always looked.”

“You mean I look fat? C’mon, Simmons, I lost twenty pounds for your sake!”

“Actually, the average weight of a human leg is 26 pounds.”

* * *

“I don’t want Grif feeling like we are pressuring him,” Wash said, holding up his hands. “I just want him to know that we miss him in the training hall because we are severely undermanned and we need every soldier out there the moment they are ready-“

“So no pressure,” Tucker cut in, rolling his brown eyes as he walked past him with his arms full of sniper rifles. “Fuck off, Palomo, Bitters already called dibs.”

“Grif won’t even leave the bed,” Simmons said with a snort. “But, well, he didn’t leave it before he lost his leg, so, maybe there’s no need to be worried.”

“Maybe. Do you have more appointments at Grey?”

Shaking his head, Simmons shifted to watch Tucker hand out the practice weapons instead. Bitters was the first Lieutenant to be granted a gun, and he marched back to the rest of his team with his shoulders slumped in the usual way.

Ever since Grif’s incident, the remains of Gold Team had been handed over to the available Captains.

No one seemed happy about the fact.

“Look, I know things are rough right now, but at least you are the right person to help Grif through this,” Wash said as he placed a hand on his shoulder. It carried a weight that Simmons couldn’t quite appreciate.

It was hard enough to keep his knees from buckling already.

“Why?” he asked, confusion winning over the desperation. “Because- why, because we have some sort of so-called special bond? Pfft. Who even says that? I mean, seriously, who said that? Because it isn’t true. Well, I suppose you do form some sort of bond when you’re stuck with a guy in the military for years. But that’s to be expected. It’s normal. And annoying. And it’s nothing like those dating rumors that some persons bring up purely for laughs except it isn’t funny, not really, but the fact still is that Grif and I do not have the bond that somebody – _Tucker –_ likes to exaggerate, but I guess Grif sorta listens to me when I tell him he looks fine without the leg – in a platonic and supporting way. Sometimes. Maybe. I think.”

“I was more thinking about the fact that you must be quite used to cybernetics,” Wash said, visor hiding whatever expression Simmons’ rant may have caused. “I… _think_ you got it handled.”

“Really?”

“Give it some time.” The Freelancer nodded towards the group of soldiers getting prepared for today’s training. “If you need some days to-“

“I’m fine,” Simmons said and he began to back away from Wash, quickening his speed into a jog. “I’ll just run Grif’s laps for him. Like I used to before, so it doesn’t really matter, I guess…”

* * *

“I need to know,” Simmons said two days later when he stepped into their shared bedroom. The stench – a mix of sweat, sickness and Simmons’ weak attempt of covering it with cologne – that he had grown used to still managed to make him scrunch up his nose. “-How do you use the bathroom? Do you find your leg then or- or do you crawl? Or jump? Do you even use the bathroom? I haven’t even seen you leave the bed and I- Are there any bottles I should be scared of?”

His eyes fell on the glass on Grif’s bedtable, containing a golden liquid. “ _Please_ tell me that is orange juice.”

“Yeah, Doc stopped by earlier.  He said that it’d help.”

Simmons sat down heavily on his bed, eyes on his feet as he began to pull off armor plates. If Grif wouldn’t even try to look at him, Simmons wouldn’t try to make an attempt of eye-contact. “Did it?”

“My leg hasn’t grown out. So…”

“Well, it’s Doc. We shouldn’t expect anything.”

Grif huffed in reply, facing the wall.

Listening, Simmons waited for a reply, but when the room remained silent he bit down on his lip and stopped any words that could have left his mouth.

* * *

“But, Tucker, it’d be so easy!”

“No, Caboose.”

“We just follow the bootprints!” the Blue soldier exclaimed, oblivious to the fact that everyone in the hallway was listening in. Not by choice – the loud voice reached their ears whether they liked it or not. And due to the subject, most of the soldiers seemed to hasten their speed towards the exit.

Even Tucker had his shoulders hunched, visor turning away from his teammate. “That’s not how it works.”

“Uh, yes, it is. It’s boot, Tucker. It wears a boot. Because of its foot. Because it’s a boot. And we can follow bootprints- Hey, Simmons.”

The maroon soldier looked up in alarm, body jerking at the sound of his name. He’d been lost in his thoughts – about Grif, mostly, damn him for making him distracted – and he turned towards the Blues, stuttering in surprise, ”Uh, hi, Caboose. What are you, uhm- What are you talking about?”

“I’m just trying to find Grif’s leg,” Caboose said, casually, as if he hadn’t just made Simmons’ entire stomach flip.

“What?”

“Caboose, I’ve already told you – there’s nothing left to find.” Tucker’s voice grew darker as he looked down, fingers thrumming against his thighs. “Nothing but a goddamn red smear-“

“Don’t,” Simmons said.

“Dude, we were the ones there. We know how it looked.”

Simmons had spent enough time imagining the scene, the voices strengthening his imagination - _“Grif can’t talk right now. Caboose, I told you to-“_. He closed his eyes. “You don’t have to bring it up like-“

“Have you seen Gruf?”

He turned towards the Blue soldier who’d moved closer with his question, towering above Simmons as he looked down at him with a tilted head.

“Yes,” Simmons said, taking a step back against the wall to avoid Caboose’s armor touching his own as he kept breaching his privacy sphere. “Why would you ask me that?”

“I, uh, you know, because you are always together and you talk a lot and Tucker says you are probably going to die together-“

Simmons’ visor snapped towards Tucker. “You what?”

“Hey, I was saying it in a romantic fashion-“

“ _You what_?!”

Oblivious to his friends’ discussion, Caboose hummed for himself and continued his explanation, “-And I haven’t seen Gruf in a while, and not his leg either, but maybe you know where he is?”

“He’s in his room,” Simmons said and hoped that his bitterness couldn’t be heard. “With his new leg.”

“Oh no.” Despite the visor blocking the sight, they all knew that Caboose’s face fell. His voice grew more upset as he asked, “Is it- is it that serious? It doesn’t have to be that way. They can stay together, talk it through!”

Mouth falling open, Simmons needed a moment before he could reply. “….What?”

“I’ll find his leg for him!” Caboose insisted bravely. “We can make it work! He doesn’t need the new one! New is old now, everyone knows that! He is making rushed decisions.”

With a sigh, Tucker pushed himself away from the wall to deal with his teammate. “Caboose.” But by the time the name had left his mouth, the Blue soldier had already disappeared from the hallway, on his way to begin his new mission with eagerness. Tucker shook his head, groaning quietly. “Goddamnit. He keeps talking about that stupid leg.”

“It’s not stupid,” Simmons muttered under his breath. It was even a thought-through decision, but an instinct reaction to defend the one thing that had changed everything.

“Sure, it is,” Tucker said harshly. “And messed up. Caboose keeps having nightmares about the fucking thing, and he wakes me up because he thinks he has to go find it even though it’s- it’s gone.” His fists uncurled and he looked away before adding with a shrug, “But Grif’s alive, so, well, why even care about it.”

Simmons swallowed the last spit in his mouth. “Yeah…”

* * *

There is blood on his hands. Gloves. He can’t see if he is wearing armor. The red covers everything.

It’s on the ground.

In this throat. He can taste it. It fills his nostrils, and every breath feels slimy. Wet.

Grif’s chest rises. Falls. First quickly, then it slows.

He doesn’t speak. It’s quiet. Ragged breaths fill the air. But they belong to Simmons, he realizes, and covers his own mouth to silence the sound.

The red spreads. It grows bigger and bigger and swallows the orange, like waves rising with the ride.

But Simmons knows it’s Grif lying there, beneath his hands, because the visor is broken. Blank eyes stare up at him through the broken glass.

“Do you have his leg?” Caboose’s voice asks him.

Simmons can’t answer him. He can only see red and supposes-

That’s all there is.

Tucker’s sword is hot and Simmons can hear the sizzling, feels the heat, when his hands reaches out to shield the body from the blade, to stop Grif from screaming but-

“He needs his leg,” Caboose says sadly. “You should give it back.”

The red in Simmons’ hands is pulsating. The sword cuts through his fingers.

Grif keeps screaming.

Simmons can hear it.

* * *

Gravy fell from Grif’s fork and landed on the sheet. It would leave stains. Simmons knew this and he tried to keep his eye from twitching as he watched Grif continue to eat as if nothing had happened.

He hadn’t even fetched his dinner himself. Matthews had brought it to him, with an extra dessert and wishes for him to get better soon.

Simmons had a feeling that the Private would be fetching dinners for a long time if the Captain could decide.

Suddenly, in the middle of chewing the potato in his mouth, Grif froze, finally noticing Simmons’ glare. “What?” he asked, mouth still full. “Okay, I have to know, are you really jealous about my shiny leg?”

“Caboose is upset with you,” Simmons said. He couldn’t remove his eyes from him, couldn’t stop talking or flee from the room.

Grif choked on the potato – something he would blame the vegetable for later – and looked up at him with his face red and burning. “I- Wait, what? _Caboose_?” he gasped, brows furrowing. “What, did I insult his invisible friend again or-?”

“You give him nightmare,” Simmons said quietly and stared into his own lap.

He remembered the voices, but every night he would see all the _red._ On his hands. On Grif.

“Yeah, well, the fuck can I do about it?” Grif finally answered with a low voice. Like Simmons, his gaze was turned towards the wall.

They sat in silence because Simmons could not find the words to describe his thoughts.

He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to be thinking.

 “Everyone gets fucking nightmares, Simmons,” Grif said when the silence had lasted for too long. “It’s not my fault that- _Shit_. I didn’t- I was the one who fucking lost-“

Clenching his fists, he cut himself off. The knife and fork clinked against the metal tray when he placed it on bed table.

The dinner was left half-eaten as Grif rolled over, letting the sleep be his way out of the conversation.

* * *

“Oh,” Simmons said after almost running into Grif in the hallway. That would have been terrible, of course, since Grif was still limping, dragging the new limb behind him. Simmons blinked, unsure if this was an illusion or if Grif had finally left his room. “I didn’t know you planned to leave the bed today.”

“I had an appointment at Grey’s,” Grif answered with a shrug. His glance was lowered, eyes glued to the metal foot that was glinting in the dull light.

“Oh.” Simmons rubbed the back of his neck. “Anything I need to hear about?”

“Probably not.”

When Grif walked away, he saw how his knee buckled with every heavy step. He should work on his posture, Simmons noted, but he didn’t say it out loud.

* * *

Grif’s limbs were tangled in his sheet, causing him to howl as he trashed around in the middle of the night.

Simmons opened his eyes, and for a moment he was still stuck in the dream – the red, _the leg_ – until he understood that he wasn’t the only one suffering from night terrors.

Digging his fingers into his pillow, Simmons tried to ignore the noises of the struggling. Something kept him from reaching out and waking him up, just too many years had passed where feelings were avoided like the plague, where trauma was never discussed, because, honestly, who was unscarred by this point?

But the whimpers from Grif’s mouth – he recognized them from the dream, he remembered them from that dreadful day where he could do nothing but listen – were too pitiful to ignore.

 “Grif?”

The gasping grew louder when Grif woke up. At least the half-choked sobs stopped.

“Is Bitters dead?” Grif asked him in a sharp inhale. Their bedroom was still engulfed by darkness, but Simmons’ cyborg eye could see the shape of him sitting upright in bed. “Fuck. I can’t remember. I can’t- Was he with us? There were two, I- Mazolla was screaming and- _Fuck_.”

His breathing was shaky. Too quick.

Like in the dream before the silence.

“Bitters is okay,” Simmons said quietly. “He wasn’t with you. It was Mazolla and Crosier. They were dead when the Blues found you.” He breathed in, trying to keep his own voice from breaking. The space between their beds felt like a void. “You were unconscious. You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Fuck. _Fuck_.”

He could hear Grif shuffling, the sound of pills rattling inside a glass. Simmons watched carefully, counting how many painkillers Grif dropped onto his palm and swallowed dry.

They must have helped. Grif’s breathing slowly grew calmer while Simmons’ body turned more and more tense as he waited in his bed.

But Grif never fell asleep, not even half an hour later when he was still staring at the ceiling.

Simmons, also awake, had a need to say:  “Caboose called me. So I could talk with you. But you couldn’t hear me.” His stomach lurched as if he was falling over the edge of the bed. “I could hear you and you were screaming because Tucker had to use his sword to…”

“It’s so weird,” Grif cut him off. His voice was slurred, the painkillers being the strong ones. “I’m like fifty percent not me? Sixty? Seventy? Mmmhm, I hate math. I ate my own heart. Did you know that? ‘least, that’s what Sarge told me. That he scooped it right out of my chest when you gave me yours and then he put it in the stew without telling me so I could eat it the next day. Weird. Right? So fucking disgustingly weird.”

Simmons hoped that was a lie.

For a numerous reasons.

Thankfully, it wouldn’t have been the first time Sarge had lied to Grif.

 “I hate this,” Grif told the ceiling.

Simmons couldn’t disagree.

* * *

There was a certain rhythm when it came to cleaning the cybernetics. Simmons enjoyed it, found it comforting. It’d become so familiar by now, and he knew every step, every order the things had to be taken apart and put together.

The cloth moved around a screw, and Simmons was careful that it wouldn’t tear.

When he straightened out his back, he noticed Grif’s dark eyes looking at him from his bed.

 “Yours will be easier to clean,” Simmons said, rubbing the cloth against the metal in circles. “The design is smoother. But I know Sarge did the best he could with mine.”

Grif leaned closer, gaze filled with a genuine interest that Simmons hadn’t seen from him in… months, maybe. He couldn’t quite remember the last time Grif’s eyes hadn’t been clouded with what looked like exhaustion.

“I was thinking you could just clean mine for me,” Grif said and he continued to watch as Simmons put away the rag and grabbed the leg instead, carefully maneuvering the limb back into base where it’d be attached, activating artificial nerves. The movement felt so natural now, practiced.

“That sounds like an awful plan,” Simmons said when the leg was in place.

“But I know you’ll do it.”

Simmons saw his own toe wiggle as he went through the recommended routine, testing his movements, checking a need for upgrades.

“You’re favoring the wrong leg.”

Grif looked at him, unwashed dark hair falling into his eyes. “Huh?”

“You have to treat it like it weights the same,” Simmons continued, pushing himself up from the bed for step two – check any faults in your steps.  “It’s difficult in the beginning, but… It gets easier.”

“I guess you know.”

Simmons took a step forward, flexed his ankle joint. No issues, no need for oil this time. When he looked up, Grif was still staring at him.

“Do you… need help?” he offered, looking down at his teammate, watching the buttons blink dully on the new limb.

“Nah, I think I’m good.”

“You can’t stay in bed forever.”

“Try me,” Grif said, looking up with eyes less dull than they’d been in weeks.

It was that tiny spark in the brown color that gave Simmons the courage to hold out his metal hand for him to grasp.

A moment passed.

Then the hand that had once belonged to Simmons grabbed it firmly.

The cybernetic kept Simmons from groaning when he had to pull Grif’s entire weight. But seconds later Grif was standing up. By himself.

And for some reason their hands were still entangled, as if he’d fall when he let go.

Grif blinked, cutting the eye-contact, before he pulled his hand back.

 “See? I’m fine,” he said, taking a few small but steady steps towards the exit. The bottom of his foot scraped against the floor. “And I’m going to get a fucking Mars bar.”

* * *

His HUD was shielding him from the sharp sun, but Simmons still had to blink to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

“Grif?” he said, staggering further down the bridge. The orange soldier was leaning against the railing, watching the city beneath him, a cigarette between his gloved fingers. “What the fuck are you doing out here?”

He’d noticed that Grif had begun to leave their bedroom more often, coming farther and farther down the hallway. He’d even spotted him in the mess hall one time. But, truly, he shouldn’t be surprised that Grif would do anything for food.

Grif shrugged, turning his face towards the sun while he exhaled the smoke. His helmet was dangling from his fingers, but he was wearing the rest of his armor. “Well, you hate it when I smoke inside,” he said casually, as if this wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t been hiding inside since the incident.

“You’re on patrol?” Simmons asked, mouth hanging wide open behind the visor.

“Obviously.”

Only Grif would be the person to use his patrol as a smoke break. With the exception of Bitters, of course.

Clearing his throat, Simmons turned his head to follow Grif’s stare. The sun was a very pretty sight, indeed. It somehow seemed warmer here on Chorus than it’d been in Blood Gulch. Simmons wasn’t quite sure how to explain it, and he wasn’t going to try.

“Do you need a partner?” he asked instead.

Grif looked at him, exhaling the last bit of smoke before letting the cigarette drop from the bridge. “Suit yourself,” he said as he put his helmet back on.

As they walked, they could hear the life of the city – people taking, yelling, vehicles humming and screeching. No gunshots yet, though it was a part of Chorus, a part of these people’s lives. Along with the fighting and the death…

But for now they could look at the sunset and pretend it was a normal city.

Groups of young soldiers passed them, waving a polite greeting at the sight of their Captains.

Grif gave them a brief nod, refraining from formalities as always, and continued forwards, steps quick and steady.

 “I told you people wouldn’t stare,” Simmons told him, just a little bit smugly, when they’d passed the southern part of the city with no comment about his incident.

“Yeah, ‘cause we are wearing armor,” Grif snorted, coming to a halt. He looked away again, focusing on the distance. “So who cares, really? Lose a limb – get a new one. Lose an organ – here’s a thing called cybernetics for you. And here’s the plus side – we all wear armor all the fucking time so no one gives a shit. Just another fucking Monday for you. It doesn’t matter. Suits of armor and a gun in our hands, right? Who cares whose limbs belong to whom?”

There was a soberness in his tone that Simmons wasn’t quite ready to face. Not yet. “…Do I have a receipt because I’m pretty sure I gave my limbs to you,” he said gently, sending him a smile that couldn’t be seen through the visors.

 “Good thing we have Grey, huh,” Grif muttered quietly. “Fix up everyone. Two weeks of medical leave and we’re right back out on the battle field. Effective. I’m sure Wash likes that.”

“The war will be over eventually,” Simmons said, but it couldn’t quite work as a promise.

Not with the long battle ahead, despite how much Simmons wanted to forget about the dangers at times.

“Yep. If we don’t die first. Then we don’t have to care about shit.”

“Well,” Simmons said, knowing that Grif was right – their armor had become a second skin, their hands were always carrying weapon, war was a part of their lives, and it’d been so for such a long time… But their lives were more than that too. There were other moments, happier ones. So happy that you forgot about the war. Their shoulders brushed against each other. “I see you without armor. Because we share bed-“

“Bow-chicka-bow-wow.”

“-room,” he ended his sentence with a sigh. “ _Bedroom_. Fuck off, Tucker.”

They turned around to see the Blues exit the mess hall, making a beeline in their direction once they’d spotted their teammates.

Once he came close enough, Tucker whistled at the sight of the orange soldier. “Holy crap, you aren’t dead. I wasn’t sure, since you were doing a pretty good dramatic death scene last time I saw you. Thanks for those traumatizing memories by the way,” he said, leaving out the part where he’d visited him in the hospital as if he’d forgotten about it.

Maybe that was the case. Grif had looked so wrong back then, so _small_ and wounded and lost, that Simmons was still trying to forget those memories.

“You’re welcome,” Grif replied, snorting when Tucker’s fist hit his shoulder plate playfully.

A second later, he was being crushed in a too strong hug. “Gruf!”

“Hey, Caboose,” he sighed, struggling to get out of his grip.

“Ah, is that your new leg? It’s so shiny! And orange!”

“That’s my armor, Caboose.”

“I tried to find your leg,” the Blue told him once he’d let him go. “But it was gone. So I found you a _new_ new leg in case you and your new leg aren’t working out. It’s yellow. I know you like that.”

He held out his hands, pulling an empty, orange boot from seemingly out of nowhere.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake-“ Grif tried to shove Caboose away, rejecting the gift. “Wait, where did you get this boot from? Whose boot is this?”

“Yours.”

“No. I mean, before you gave it to me.”

“Oooh,” Caboose said, smacking his lips. “No one’s.”

When the Reds turned their heads to stare at Tucker, he just shrugged and threw up his arms. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know shit.”

In the distance, carried by the wind, they could hear Bitters’ frustrated voice: “For fuck’s sake, Palomo, if this is your idea of a joke-!”

After a brief snort of laughter, Simmons said, “I have a pretty good guess.”

Later, when the Blues had left to give back the stolen boot and the city had gone quiet as the sun settled in the distance, Grif and Simmons would stand on the bridge again, watching Chorus. The night patrols could be spotted by the way their sniper rifles glinted when light fell on them, a reminder of the war they were still fighting.

Grif lit a cigarette, covering them with soft glow.

“So…” Simmons said, taking off his own helmet. “Did you ever find out what that button did?”

“Apparently, it’s like a recharging thing.” He sent clouds of smoke towards the sky before his lips pulled upwards into a smile. “Yeah, turns out I now have a legitimate reason to say I’ve run out of energy.”

“I doubt Wash will accept that excuse twice a day.”

“I can try.”

Simmons didn’t doubt that was the case.

When the cigarette had been crushed beneath his boot, Grif sighed, rubbing his eyes before he sent Simmons a gentle smile. “You know what? To be honest, I prefer your leg.”

“My leg? Not your own?”

“Nah, I’ve forgotten what that thing felt like,” Grif replied, and for a second the absurdity of the situation couldn’t be ignored – the fact that it wasn’t quite Grif’s legs, it wasn’t quite his left arm. But it was still him. Here. Alive. With Simmons. “ Plus, I’ve gotten used to you – uh, _yours_.”

“The new one looks good on you,” Simmons said, feeling his heart flutter when Grif smiled again. “But maybe try to keep your right arm. It’s your last limb, you know.”

“You know what, Simmons? I will.”

“And if not,” Simmons told him, reaching for his hand, “I suppose I could give you mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> TILLYKKE MED FØDSELSDAGEN! A big happy birthday to my lovely friend Creatrixanimi who deserves the world. A year ago she requested an amputee Grif one-shot (the girl loves whump alright) and I started it, wrote 3000 words, and forgot about it for a year! But now I finally picked it up and finished it! I hope you have the greatest day, my dear friend!
> 
> As always, English isn't my native language so I apologize for any mistakes and you can find me on tumblr as riathedreamer


End file.
